Words Fail
by supremerulerofthecats
Summary: You’re running. It seems like running is all you do. You don’t know anything else. Everything you do is a product of you or someone close running.


You're running. It seems like running is all you do. You don't know anything else. Everything you do is a product of you or someone close running.

You remember the day your sister ran, accepting a scholarship she didn't want at a collage she hated, just to get away from your parents.

You remember how she took you outside into her beat-up truck and put Folsom Prison Blues in the CD player. The two of you drove and sang for hours until you went home.

You remember her carrying you inside and up to your room where she tucked you in and kissed your forehead. "See you in the morning," she lied.

After she left, home stopped being home, it was just the house that you lived in with your parents.

You remember how your father ran after she left. He drank more, came back later and later, until one night he didn't come.

You remember the day he came back. You were six. It had been one year since he left and two since your sister.

You remember the rage he was in as your mother sent you to your room. You could hear them shouting and screaming at each other as you strained to catch any words falling from their mouths. You couldn't. All you could hear were yells. It continued like this for several weeks. You barely got any sleep.

You remember when the bruises began. They didn't start with you they started with your mother. You see the yellow marks on her skin start to appear two weeks after he comes back. You can hear as the shouts and yells of your mother turn into scared sobs of pain and submission.

You remember the first time he hit you. You were seven, walking to the house from school with your only friend in the world, a nice 8th grader.

She walked you to the doorstep, hugged you, ruffled your hair, and said goodbye. Your father opened the door and yanked you in. He started screaming about how "she won't save you," "you mean nothing to her," and "she only takes care of you for the attention." It hurts. You start to tear up. You put your head down and begin to cry. His hand strikes your cheek and you recoil with a startled sob. You stare up at your father with fear and surprise in your eyes.

"Look at me when I speak to you," he says, a steel, vice-like grip on your jaw.

You remember how downhill your life went after that day. Your mother was constantly in and out of the hospital, but she wouldn't turn him in.

You remember the day he broke your arm for dropping a box of books over half your weight when you tripped on his overly out-stretched foot. A neighbor had heard your scream. Your father grabbed your broken arm and dragged you into the bathroom. He washed dried blood off of your face and his hands from previous affairs.You could now hear sirens. He told you to be good or you'd regret it.

Your mother woke when the cops banged on the door. She wiped her face of tiredness then rushed to your father's side and took the hand of your good arm. He walked to the door and let the police in. They said the neighbor had heard a scream. He said you had fallen down the stairs. She said the same. You started to shiver with silent sobs. Your parents' façade was so obvious, yet it went undetected. The cops believed them and left not asking you what had happened. Not that you would have told them the truth anyways.

After that, he was more careful about his abuse. You no longer owned any shorts, or short-sleeved shirts, or tank tops. They all would have shown or flaunted the gashes, the bruises, and the scars. Instead, you wore sweaters and baggy jeans everyday by the time you were a little over eight.

You remember how your mother got worse, too. She began to stop talking back to your father, began to stop defending you and standing up for you when you couldn't as he slowly beat the voice out of you.

One day, when you come to the house from school, you remember having to go to the bathroom. You remember running up the stairs and to the door. You twisted the knob. Immediately, you knew something was off. The door was locked. It was never locked.

At first, you thought it was your father throwing up from drinking so much, but then you recalled seeing him passed out on the couch in your haze of running.

You knew you should have just gone to the other bathroom then gone to do your homework, but you were nine years old with a curiosity that kills and knowledge of where the keys were. You regretted unlocking it for the rest of your life.

You remember the bright flashing lights that came after you called the hospital a while after opening the door. You remember having to clean the bathtub after they took it away. You remember draining the blood. You remember closing your bedroom door after you were done. You remember looking down at your shirt and seeing her blood staining it. You remember going through things in your mind. You remember remembering seeing her lying there, eyes staring, but not seeing, hand slack but still warm. Her body was warm too, you noticed as you shook her, crying and pleading to Yahweh that she was still alive.

Your pleas were fruitless. She was gone, leaving you with your monster of a father. You knew he would blame you for this. You knew you were in for worlds of hurt and suffering. You knew she wouldn't come back, but selfishly you wished she would. You didn't want to endure the torture by yourself, you wanted someone to share your pain. Now, no one was there. You were alone. Everyone who you thought had cared had left. Your sister ran, taking your home. Your friend moved, taking your heart. Now, she had run too. You wanted to ask her why. Why? Why had she left you with the demon? Why had she not cared enough to say 'I love you' one last time? Why? Why? Why?

You remember climbing into your bed and crying yourself to sleep, self-deprecating thoughts running through your young mind.

You weren't good enough. You were never good enough.The last person who you thought had truly cared about you was dead. Your mother was gone, she was never coming back, she was dead and you might as well be.

Two weeks, later you no longer had the ability to speak.

You remember the first time you lashed out at someone. You were fifteen. You had gotten a 'B' on a test - that the teacher had changed to an 'A' after she realized she had miscounted - and you had welts all over you body, sans the visible places. You had barely gotten out of bed that morning.

For some reason, the girlfriend of the star quarterback had decided that you would tell her what your homework was in a class you had together. You shrugged and swiftly walked away.

It was a trap. You find out the quarterback was angry and needed to vent. He was either going to beat you up for talking to his girlfriend or not answering her question. Win-win situation, for him.

He violently grabbed your shoulders and threw your weak body the wall. The welts and cuts flaring up with pain, forcing your body to overtake your brain. You launched up a knee, heard a groan of agony, and ran as fast as you could to the closest bathroom and locked the door.

You looked in the mirror, your face a slightly bruised, perfect mix of the two people who had created the mistake that was yourself. His eyes, her structure, his hair, her lips and skin tone. You hated it. You couldn't count how many times you had sat in front of a mirror and silently screamed and sobbed at your own stupid face.

You were terrified that you were slowly turning into him. You'd been lashing out on your pillow and mattress more and more and more recently, wishing you could shout, or shriek, or make any noise with your voice at all. You thought it might help, and it probably would have, but you couldn't, so it didn't.

Shaking your head, you looked away from your reflection and left the bathroom, left the school, actually. You would probably get detention and a few empty beer bottles to the head or back, and you would regret this later, but, now, you just wanted to go see someone you hadn't seen in awhile.

You remember grabbing some flowers from outside the cemetery gate and walked to your mother's grave, only identifiable by the flower stand and the Star of David you had made in shop class for a free-rein project.

You remember kneeling down, folding your hands and praying to her. You asked her how it was, if she liked it, and if it was worth it. You always asked this, she of course never answered, but you always felt her hug you and kiss your cheek. You knew you were going insane, the dead couldn't comfort the living.

You remember how you should have expected it. You should have expected the officer who monitored the school to follow you and take you back there.

He put a hand on your shoulder. You twisted away violently, fell, and scrambled back, thinking it was your father. He looked at a bruise on your cheekbone from not being home on time the other day. His face morphed into one of revulsion. You looked away, mistaking it for recoiling from your disgusting features. His eyes widened and he reassured you his distaste was caused by the fact that people have the stomach to do these kinds of things to children. You pouted. You weren't a child. He laughed.

His expression turned more serious. He asked who did this. You stared, then pointed to your throat and hoped he would understand.

You remember the surprising relief you felt when he mouthed an 'oh' and helped you to your feet telling you to follow him.

You remember him asking you to come with him to the station and report whoever did this. You wondered why he was doing this all for a simple bruise, but then you noticed that you had pushed your sleeves back before praying - a habit from when you were little that you had yet to break.

Surprising him and yourself, you agreed. You were done with his abuse and his reckless behavior.

You remember not going home that day. The cop let you stay in a spare room. You smiled for the first time in a few years.

The next month, a Saturday, he woke you and said that you would have to come with him to take your father into custody. You started to smile and laugh hysterically in your mind, realization and a slight craze setting in.

You would be free. After a couple weeks short of a decade, his hold on your life would end.

You remember the excitement in driving back to your house, sitting in the front of the cop's car.

You went up first. You unlocked the door and walked in. It felt like a repeat of your mother, you were almost scared to enter.

You walked around the house, looking for your father. You couldn't find him. You felt a panic attack coming on. The cop and his partners were watching all possible escapes, so unless he wasn't here, he was hiding somewhere in the house.

The more you walked around, the more anxious you got. He was here. You knew it. You could sense it. You could feel it.

You remember a sharp, aggressive pain on the back of your head and neck.

You remember warmth flowing down your back.

You remember being propelled into the wall.

You remember a loud bang.

You remember darkness.

You don't remember anything.

You remember waking up.

You remember the sterile smell and fluorescent lights.

It was sickening.

You laugh mentally. The hospital is sickening.

At least, that's where you think you are.

Your suspicions are confirmed when a nurse comes in, runs some tests, and tells you that you have some visitors.

The first was the cop. He came bearing good news. Your father was in custody and awaiting trial.

His partner had shot him in the leg as he tried to run away.

You motioned for a paper and pen and asked what had happened.

The cop said that your father had smashed a glass on the back of your neck, then proceeded to slam you into the wall. He had slightly fractured a bone with the force he had used.

You didn't pay attention to the rest. You leaned your head back. He was gone. You were done with him, forever.

You went back to the cop's house the next week.

You were happier than you had ever been.

Naturally, that's when everything was destroyed.

You were done with him, but he wasn't done with you.

You began to see him in every reflective surface you saw, all traces of your mother had vanished. You felt darkness close in on you during the brightest of days. Any time your neck was bare you felt the all the bottles that had been smashed there. You felt as if the scars all over your body were ten times more noticeable than usual.

You didn't tell anyone. They would just take you to a therapist, and right now, you didn't need that. The only person you would consider telling the truth to was the cop, but you felt you had burdened him enough over the last few months. He didn't need your drama. He'd taken you in. He'd given you food and clothes and a place to sleep. He had gotten you away from your father. You couldn't ask for more from him.

You comforted yourself in the only way you knew.

Feeling the cool metal slide across your skin felt relaxing, consoling, liberating, even. You lied back in the bathtub, the way you imagine your mother did all those years ago. You felt sleep creeping up on you. You felt its pull as you slowly succumbed to the sweet release of the darkness you were once afraid of.

You remember nothing and you remember everything.

You dragged the blade across your arm once more.

Your eyes flutter closed and you let the void take you away, finally able to stop running.


End file.
